


Let's Stop Running From Us

by macwritesthings



Series: What We Both Need [3]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Scenes, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Deleted Scenes, Dominant Armie, Hair-pulling, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outtakes, Submissive Timothée, brat used as an affectionate term of endearment, universe compliant rules and language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-04-28 00:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macwritesthings/pseuds/macwritesthings
Summary: A collection of outtakes, alternate scenes, and deleted scenes from What We Both Need. This will be updated sporadically throughout the course of the main story being updated as well, and tags will be added for each new chapter as necessary. Summaries of the events of each scene will be at the beginning of each chapter. Enjoy!





	1. Alternate Scene--Armie in the coffeehouse

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is the first alternate scene in this universe, and I'm posting it because I got a few requests to see Armie's POV from [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344275/chapters/33106599) of You Make My Heart Shake. So here it is, Armie's POV as he and Timmy meet to go over the contracts detailing Timmy doing commissioned artwork for Armie's company.

_Armie_

He had to admit, he was nervous. He hated being nervous, hated being anything other than completely in charge. And it wasn’t a dominant thing, he just….liked knowing what was going to happen. He liked knowing that things were going to plan, that there was an outline, a schedule, a fucking routine or something that was being followed. He wasn’t anal about it, he just liked having things in his life run smoothly. And that wasn’t a crime, right? 

This thing with Timmy, though…..god, he didn’t have a fucking plan for this, a blueprint or an outline or fucking anything to guide him through it other than shy glances he caught from green eyes under a sinful forest of lashes, hair falling over those eyes when Timmy ducked his head, pretending not to have seen Armie looking at him; a glimpse of teeth sunk briefly into a lower lip when Armie leaned in too close, brushed his hand over Timmy’s on the papers spread out in front of them at the coffee shop, the slight shudder of breath when he squeezed Timmy’s unadorned wrist as he laughed at something Timmy had said, feeling the fine tremor and kick in his pulse under Armie’s fingers. Nothing to guide him through it but instinct and a thrumming in his veins that told him this was the right path to go down, this was the correct thing to do.

His contract with his previous sub had ended, coincidentally, that morning, and he hadn’t elected to renew it or take his assistant up on any of the other names she’d provided him with. He knew this was foolish, maybe the second most foolish thing he’d done in his life, one of the few times he’d flown without a flight plan, gone somewhere without a precise plan, without it all detailed out, ust vague details and outlines stuffed in the back compartment of his briefcase to have his brother go over later. All he had was this feeling, this certainty when he looked at Timmy, when he felt Timmy looking at him when he thought Armie wasn’t watching. He had stolen glances and coy presses of his legs between the younger man’s to hear him gasp, the pleasure of making him blush when Armie said something just a _little_ over the line, just a little too uncouth to be taken innocently.

Maybe those _were_ his blueprints, he thought, watching Timmy mull over his offer of doing the artwork commissions, watching him come to the realization of why, exactly, he wanted it to be Timmy, no, fuck it, why he _needed_ it to be Timmy, why he needed this to happen. He could have picked any other artist, but the truth of it was no one else’s work had ever spoken to him like Timmy’s, had ever reached out and grabbed him by the throat like the works by this shy, sarcastic, intelligent, gentle sub, this amazing human sitting across from him, fingers rubbing over his mouth as he thought, and all Armie could focus on would be how it would feel to have that mouth under his own fingers, what it would be like to get his hand in those curls and just _tug_ , have Timmy slide gracefully to the floor at his feet, accept anything and everything Armie wanted to give him. 

He was praying Timmy would say yes. When he finally did, looking up and smiling at Armie, an unguarded, real smile, Armie felt himself almost burst, felt his own smile spread in return, saw the way Timmy’s throat caught as he swallowed, as his eyes barely flicked down to study Armie’s mouth before they were latched onto his eyes again.

All he had to go off of here was body language, and he hoped he was reading it correctly, otherwise his entire plan was going to go up in flames before it even began. He just had to figure out how to word it, now, how to bring it up without looking sleazy or like he was taking advantage of someone he was currently (technically) employing. He laughed a little, and reached into his bag for the contracts, shifting a little too much to get his leg between Timmy’s, just to feel the contact for a brief moment, to feel the way the slender limbs jerked around his, indulge himself for one moment in imagining what it might be like to have those legs wrapped around his waist, spread in his bed, before he shifted back into his own space, all professional smiles and demeanor.

This was going to work, he knew, with or without a blueprint. He was going to make sure it worked.


	2. Outtake--Timmy finding a gallery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an outtake I wrote for the CMBYN 10 minute challenge on tumblr, and it's Timmy finding the gallery where, eventually, Armie sees his painting that he then buys and then prompts him to contact Timmy in the first place!

Timmy huffed out a breath, leaning against his sister’s side as they stood outside the gallery, shivering a little in the cold.

“Do I seriously need to do this now?” he asked, voice almost a whine as he pouted up at her, sliding his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the wind.

Pauline rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a baby, Timmy, and yes, you have to do it now. You need to look at the space so it can be approved, because no one but the artist can approve the space, and hey, guess what? You’re the artist.”

Timmy huffed, pushing his hair out of his face as the wind blew it back in his eyes, bumping Pauline with his hip. “Okay,” he said, shrugging. “Let’s get this over with.”

They went inside, the gallery owner immediately scooting over to greet them, all smiles and extended hands for Pauline and then looking at Timmy, waiting for him to extend his hand, palm up, for fingers to be allowed to stroke over his palm, touch the bracelet marking him as a sub, making him less than in the space that was paying him to display his work.

He did it, though, shuddered at the feeling of cold fingers sliding over his palm, resisted the urge to wipe his hand off on his jeans because that wasn’t polite. 

He wandered, after that, knowing that he was mostly there for show, because no one was going to talk to him like he was an equal, anyways, no one was really going to treat him as anyhing other than a precious little sub being coddled by his mother for his hobby, the hobby that happened to make him famous and have gallery owners clamoring to have his work displayed in their spaces because his shows always sold out and made them money, but _god forbid they treat him like a person._

He wasn’t terribly impressed with the owner, that much was for sure, but as he took in the space, the more impressed he became with the space. He tuned out the words behind him, the sound of Pauline and whatever the fuck his name was talking, studied the blank wall space, the skylights, the tracklights above his head, spinning in a slow circle. Yes, this could work. This could work very well. He had forest pieces that would work under those lights, be hit just right during specific times of day to add light to the gloom, the mystery of the pieces, bring out the creatures hidden in the shadows, and then at dusk, add just a little more mystery to them, moonlight reflecting off them just barely through the city lights….

Yes, the skylights would work nicely. 

He wandered more, tuning in occasionally when he heard his name, nodding or shaking his head in response to questions, a few times actually using his words to ask about the lighting being adjustable or a few of the sliding walls being moved around to make room for things–he had one piece, a centerpiece for the exhibit–that needed to go somewhere perfect, and as much as the gallery space was calling to him, he hadn’t found the right spot for that piece yet.

Sighing, he turned around yet another corner, into a smaller, dim room off the main gallery floor. The walls were still painted a deep, moss-green from the last exhibit, and there were soft, dusky lights set in the room, and he stopped, spinning another slow circle. This was it. This was the spot that painting was meant to be hung. This was the place that the painting was meant to be, was meant to be showcased. This would show off everything about it that he loved and the parts that caused him to ache to part with it, this was the place it could go to convince someone to buy it.

He needed someone to buy it, because if no one did, it would go home with him and be listed on the gallery’s website or his own until it was purchased, and he’d put so much of himself into it that he couldn’t have it at home. He just couldn’t. Someone else needed to buy the painting. He studied the room again, then nodded.

Stepping briskly back into the main room, he walked to the gallery owner, waiting until eyes were on him. “This is the space I want, and the centerpiece of the exhibit is going to go in that room,” he pointed to the one he’d emerged from, “and I’ll pay whatever I need to to keep it in the condition it’s in now, and to build that theme around the rest of the show.”

The owner’s eyebrows winged up, surprised, and Pauline hid a smirk behind his back, raising one eyebrow at Timmy. He shrugged. If people were unwilling to deal with him directly when it came to the terms, then they weren’t going to get his work in their buildings. That was just how it was. He was all for appearances and tradition, but there was a line of respect he demanded.

The gallery owner considered him, then stuck out a hand for Timmy to shake, a sign of respect. “Done,” he said.


	3. Nicole's POV--subdrop and aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo in the comments a couple people mentioned it might be interesting to see Nicole's reaction to Armie's texts to Timmy at the end of [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344275/chapters/33600849), since she monitors all his correspondence, and the idea took hold and wouldn't let go. So here is an outtake showing Nicole's reaction to the subdrop, and more of her thoughts on Armie and Timmy's relationship.
> 
> There will be a main story update coming later this week, never fear!! As always, thank you so so much for reading <3

_Nicole_

She’d practically sped home, and she wasn’t usually a reckless driver. But the call from Armie’s assistant had shook her, more than she wanted to admit. Timmy hadn’t ever been _through_ a subdrop, and the one time, the _one time_ it happened, she was over two hours away, stuck in meetings in New Jersey with the slowest speaker known to man, a keynote speaker herself, and stuck by obligation until the end.

Of course, she’d granted permission to Armie to help Timmy through it right away. She’d excused herself to take the call, since it was coming through on the emergency cell (her Timmy Phone, she called it, joking, since it was also the phone that monitored his texts and calls), and no one had blinked an eye--every dom had one, a line dedicated specifically to their sub, in case there was trouble, but she had to admit she’d expected another call from law enforcement telling her that Timmy had been fined again for doing something _untoward_ for a submissive, not Armie’s assistant telling her, briskly, that he was going through subdrop, and they had a licensed therapist on-site to help subs who went through this, and would she like the therapist to help?

It hadn’t even occurred to her to say yes. She’d immediately granted permission for Armie to help Timmy through it, had found a fax and written a hasty permission slip, faxed it to the number his assistant had rattled off for her.

And had spent the next two hours of meetings completely unfocused, worrying about her son. He was tough, she knew, and capable enough to take care of himself, but subdrop was something else entirely, and not something he could deal with on his own at all. She’d seen subs go through it before--her own sister was a sub, and it was a terrifying experience. Her sister had almost disappeared, shaking and clinging to both her and their father, both of them just holding her hands and Nicole petting through her hair, singing her soft songs, and her father joining in on the chorus, making sure to keep in contact with her, keep her calm and soothed, surrounded by soft touches.

It had been terrifying to witness, and just the thought of her boy going through the same thing was awful. She’d texted Pauline right away, asked her to go and get him as soon as Armie said he was stable, had texted Armie the same request-- _Pauline has your number. She’ll come get him as soon as you think he’s ready to be transported. Thank you._ But it wasn’t the same as being there, helping him through it, being there for him, making sure he was okay, being the one to keep him grounded, keep him comforted and safe. She knew he was safe, she _knew_ Armie would keep him safe. She trusted him to do so, and that was saying something. She didn’t trust many doms with her son, not after seeing the types of letters he’d received for offers of courtship, the way they harassed him when he was just out getting coffee, the comments they made as she walked down the street _with_ him, the comments about his looks, his demeanor.

She knew the world was designed to be dangerous for her son, knew there were laws in place to protect him, but also knew those laws, to many traditionalists, didn’t mean shit. Knew that he probably got worse when he was out without her, knew that the Timmy Phone beeped every time a dom scanned his bracelet to make sure he wasn’t breaking the rules, couldn’t be turned in for some small infringement that they considered unseemly for a submissive out without his dominant. She’d put every protection she could think of in place for him, granted him every permission available, and smiled sweetly at her traditionalist co-workers when they berated her for giving him “too much freedom” and then very politely told them to go fuck themselves.

Just because the world was dangerous and unfair didn’t mean she was going to treat him like a prisoner, a possession. He was a person--a funny, brilliant, talented person, and just because he was submissive didn’t make him _less_.

Which was how Nicole knew that he was safe with Armie, because Armie didn’t think he was less. Armie thought he was (she thought on the drive home, fingers gripping the steering wheel) talented and a smart ass and humorous. He thought her son was brilliant, respected his opinions, texted him randomly in the middle of the day to relay stories of things happening at work, sometimes texted him late at night with arguments about TV shows they both watched, and she watched the messages light up the screen of her Timmy Phone, usually ignoring them, but if there were enough in quick succession, she’d peer at them, laughing softly to herself in whatever room she was in as she watched Timmy’s quick wit and sharp tongue fly across the screen, Armie’s sarcasm responding in fine form. She caught the underlying affection there, because she knew it when she saw it, and it made her more comfortable about Timmy working for Armie, about Timmy being alone with him.

Made her know he was safe.

She was halfway home when the text from Pauline came through, and she glanced at it briefly. _Just picked up Timmy. He’s still out of it, but better. Taking him home to get some sleep._ Nicole breathed a sigh of relief, dictated back a fast text to let Pauline know she’d received it, and pushed her speed.

She was ten blocks from home when her phone rang. Ordering to answer through the in-dash system, she waited for the connection to come through before speaking.

“This is Nicole.”

“Nicole? It’s Armie.” She smiled a little upon hearing his voice, hands relaxing on the steering wheel for the first time since she’d sat in the car.

“Armie. It’s good to hear from you, thank you, again, so much, for taking care of Timmy. I don’t know what we would have done without you today, and if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

Armie laughed a little on the other end. “It’s honestly not a problem, Nicole. I’m glad I was there to help handle it. I mean that, sincerely. I do have something I’d like to discuss with you, though, and I was wondering if you had any free time tonight? If tonight is too soon, because of the drop, I completely understand--”

“No,” she interrupted, pulling into the drive of the home and switching the call to her phone, tucking it against her shoulder as she got out of the car. “Tonight’s not bad. He might feel more comfortable having you around, actually, the more he comes out of it, since you were the one who stabilized him through it. I just got home, I’m about to go check on him.”

“I was hoping you might say that.” Armie sounded amused. “I’m down the block at the moment.” Nicole paused, keys in hand, and watched the black town car cruise to a stop in front of the house. Huffing out a laugh, she hung up the phone and waited as Armie unfolded himself from the backseat, speaking to the driver before closing the door and watching the car cruise away as silently as it had appeared. When he was close enough, she reached out and wrapped one arm around him in an easy hug, and he returned the gesture, hand light on her back. She breathed out, slowly, felt a little more tension bleed out of her. Surely, if the drop had been terrible, someone would have told her by now. 

“Come inside,” she said, noting the briefcase in his hand. “Pauline’s home, which means there’s going to be food, both for Timmy to get his energy up and because she cooks when she’s nervous.” Armie chuckled a little, and followed her inside, where she headed straight for the kitchen, dropping her things on the counter. Pauline looked over from the stove, smiling at them both.

“He’s fine,” she said before Nicole could even open her mouth. “He really is. Armie definitely made sure of that, mom. He was a little out of it when we got home, but he just woke up. He’s just freshening up.”

Nicole nodded, taking off her coat and moving to hang it, turning to Armie. “I can take your coat, if you leave it here. Why don’t you go up and check on him? It might help him, honestly, to see your face first.” When Armie handed over the coat but looked as though he was going to protest, she just shook her head. “I won’t be upset if he doesn’t see me first thing. Coming home and seeing that Pauline’s calm, and you’re here, means that he got through it okay. That’s all that matters. Go ahead and see him, and then the two of you can come down and we can talk.” Armie nodded and headed off, Pauline socking him affectionately in the shoulder as he moved past her. Once he was gone, Nicole rubbed her hands over her face, moving into Pauline when her daughter came over to hug her.

“He’s really okay, mom,” she said, rubbing Nicole’s back, and Nicole nodded, just holding on to her for a moment.

“I believe you. It was just scary, honestly, being far away while he was helpless and not being able to do anything about it.”

“He’s fine,” Pauline drew back, moving to the fridge to get out water bottles, passing one to her mother. “When I got there, his eyes were more alert, his posture good. He was still sitting, at Armie’s feet, but he wasn’t kneeling, just leaning against him, and responsive to what was being said to him--not verbally, but he would smile, or shake his head. He’s okay. He’s been asleep for a couple of hours, so he’s most likely past the worst of it.”

Nicole nodded, taking the water to the table and settling down, Pauline following suit. “I know. I’m just worried he might have a small flashback, or something. This is the first drop he’s been through, and I just worry. It’s good Armie was there. Not good that it happened, but good it happened where it did.” Pauline nodded.

“I know. I get what you’re saying. He really likes him, you know,” she added, taking a swallow of water, and Nicole laughed.

“Who? Timmy, or Armie?” 

Pauline smirked a little at her. “Both. They’re infatuated, and it shows. I don’t need to monitor their conversations to see that.”

“They are. And Armie wants to talk to me, which makes me think he’s finally going to make some sort of move. It should be good for him--both of them, actually. They suit each other, don’t you think?” Pauline snorted.

“They’re both sarcastic personalities with a tendency towards brattiness and moments of brilliance. Of course they suit each other.”

Nicole opened her mouth to reply, but then the Timmy Phone vibrated in her pocket. Frowning, she pulled it out, glancing down at the text message. She just stared at it for a moment before covering her mouth with one hand, honestly not sure if she should be amused or not, and finally deciding on amused, laughing through her fingers when Timmy’s reply came through.

“What?” Pauline demanded, craning over in her chair. “I want to know what’s so funny.” Nicole debated for a moment, then showed Pauline the texts, including the newest addition flashing across the screen. Pauline hummed a little, looking wickedly pleased. “Like I said. Prone to brattiness. They’re perfect for each other.”

Nicole tucked the phone away as Armie’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, nodding. “You’re right. They really are.”


	4. Interlude--after chapter two of "We'll Be Fireproof"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This happens directly after the events of chapter two of "We'll Be Fireproof", so it's good to read that first! This doesn't fit in with the next part of that installment neatly, so it's its own little outtake here.

_Timothee_

He hadn’t expected to go under that quickly, that easily, didn’t expect it to happen from Armie barely holding one hand behind his back, hand tangled in his curls, tone teasing with a hint of something _more_ running under it. Hadn’t expected it to be so _much_ right away, but he thought that maybe he should have known, considering that the first time he’d met the man two weeks earlier he’d literally wanted to slide to his knees at his feet the first time Armie had smiled at him. He probably, all things considered, should have seen this coming.

And now he was sitting on Armie’s couch, waiting for him to finish up what he was working on, water bottle tucked against his side as he fiddled in a sketchbook, glancing over at Armie occasionally when he’d mutter to himself under his breath, smiling a little because it was, quite frankly, adorable that the man talked to himself. Once Timmy had been back in himself, been present, they’d actually gone over the concepts he’d brought, heads together over the drawings spread out on the small table in the corner of the room, standing hip-to-hip as Timmy explained his ideas for each room, the color schemes and concepts, the ideas he had for murals in the larger conference rooms, shivering at one point when Armie dropped his hand to rest on the back of his neck, a comforting, distracting presence.

They’d actually managed to get work done, and that was good, because now he was sitting here, supposedly working on refining some of the things Armie had tossed out as potentially changing or redesigning (looking so worried that Timmy would be offended, somehow, would be upset with him, finally laughing when Timmy shook him lightly by the lapels of his suit and told him to cut it out, because this was a commission, so what Armie wanted was what Armie was going to get, and that, well, that had taken his breath away after he’d said it because Armie had just grinned at him wickedly and Timmy realized a little too late what he’d just said and blushed furiously), but instead he was just sneaking furtive glances at Armie from under his hair, chewing on his lower lip and doing a quick profile sketch of Armie at his desk, fingers steepled at his chin, brow furrowed in thought.

He shifted after that, moving to dig headphones out of his bag, and Armie turned to him, looking a little concerned. “Are you okay?” he questioned, keeping all his attention on Timmy, and Timmy felt warmth spread through him, starting at his stomach and blooming through his chest and into his throat, and he nodded and held up his headphones.

“Yeah. I was just going to listen to music, and I didn’t want to bug you.” Armie nodded, swiveling back to the screen but keeping his eyes on Timmy.

“Alright. I shouldn’t be much longer, and then we can get going.” Timmy just shrugged, and Armie shook his head, laughing a little. “You’re far too agreeable sometimes. It gives people the impression you’re like this all the time.”

Timmy just smiled at him innocently, fluttering his eyelashes. “What’s the fun in being predictable?” he countered, and Armie just pointed one finger at him, eyes narrowing.

“You. Are a brat,” he stated, and Timmy laughed, reclining back on the couch cushions and slipping his headphones over his ears as Armie just shook his head again and turned back to his screen, and Timmy adjusted himself so he was propped against the arm of the couch, feet propped on the table in front of him, the perfect angle to keep covertly sketching Armie. He scrolled through music until he found something he was used to, something familiar that wouldn’t distract him from work, and actually set down to refining the concepts they’d talked about, fingers tapping on the sketchpad in time with the music.

When Armie shifted again, he pushed one earphone away from his ear, blinking up at him, still caught a little in the pull of work, and Armie waved one hand at him. “You can finish what you’re doing. I’m done, I just need to grab things.” So Timmy nodded, looking back down at his pad, scribbling ideas for the remainder of the work so he wouldn’t lose everything completely, and then shut down the music, slipped off the headphones, and looked up to see Armie watching him, small smile on his face.

“What?” Timmy asked, suddenly self conscious, fiddling with his headphones, and Armie shook his head, sliding his arms into his coat.

“Nothing. You’re just….you’re beautiful when you’re working,” he said, and Timmy flushed and looked down at his hands, at the mess of charcoal smudges on his fingers, caught on the heel of his hand, and Armie crossed to him, took his fingers again and squeezed. “I mean it. I’m not trying to embarrass you, and I’m sorry if I did. But it’s…..amazing, watching you work.” Timmy exhaled, a sudden rush of air, and tipped his head up to meet Armie’s eyes, startled to find his face mere centimeters from Timmy’s own. He swallowed, hard, eyes darting down to Armie’s mouth and then back up to his eyes, and Armie smiled, leaning forwards to brush his mouth just barely behind Timmy’s ear, beard scratching against the delicate skin of his throat, and he heard himself whimper, felt his fingers shift to grip Armie’s tighter, and felt the warm gust of air when Armie laughed, pulling back and settling on his heels so he was even with Timmy, still seated on the couch and _trembling_.

He was silent for a moment, just watching Armie watch him, and then finally managed to get out, “you’re a _terrible_ person and an enormous tease, and I honestly hate you.” 

When Armie’s laugh rang out through the room, Timmy felt it echo to his core, felt it wrap around him like Armie’s arms, keeping him safe, letting him be himself, embracing all the parts about him that were unpredictable and bratty and enjoying them for exactly what they were. Armie shited then, pushing up and offering Timmy his hand.

“Come on, kid,” he said, tugging Timmy up and brushing one hand over the hair falling in his eyes. “Let’s find dinner. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”


	5. Outtake--far in the future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy is sick. Armie takes care of him. (Read the notes for this one, guys.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is all Nel's fault and you can all blame her for it!!!! I was like hey should I post this outtake that takes place like LITERALLY MONTHS FROM NOW CHRONOLOGICALLY OR WAIT and she literally forced me to do this it was terrible (it wasn't terrible).
> 
> THIS LITERALLY TAKES PLACE MONTHS IN THE FUTURE LIKE WOW WE ARE NOWHERE NEAR THIS YET but ummmmmm here you go anyways, have an outtake of Timmy being sick and Armie taking care of him because I Love Fluff and this wouldn't leave me alone

Timmy sniffled as he woke up, rubbing his eyes and burrowing under the blankets in the bed, shivering a little. He’d been miserably sick for three days already and it was showing no signs of letting up, his fever constantly bouncing up and down, his entire body feeling aching continuously, his throat so sore he hadn’t been able to eat anything solid, and no matter how many blankets he had near him he was never _comfortable_. He had a gallery show coming up in two weeks, had to finish the artwork placement for it, touch up a couple paintings, do interviews, make some sort of appearance at a banquet or something, and all he wanted to do was literally crawl in a hole, because maybe then it would at least be dark and his head would stop throbbing against the light.

He sniffed again, rubbing one hand over his face and huddling miserably under the blankets, frowning a little without meaning to because everything just _hurt_ , and that was when the coughing fit hit, wracking his body with harsh, guttural coughs that made him gag and struggle to get out of the blankets, stumbling over his own feet as he weaved to the bathroom, collapsing on his knees next to the toilet and clinging to it, caught between coughs and dry heaving, shaking from the sudden cold air of the room hitting his sweat-drenched clothes, and finally, after a few horrible moments, he stopped, gasping for breath, his eyes clenched closed tightly against the tears escaping, and he just gave up and curled on the floor, shivering and trying to catch his breath.

The footsteps against the floor were loud, too loud where he had his ear pressed to the tile, and he winced, shaking his head against the noise, but whimpering a little in relief when he heard the voice, felt the hands gentle on his arms and forehead, pushing tendrils of hair out of his eyes.

“Baby, hey, look at me,” Armie’s voice was soft, soothing, but Timmy knew it well enough to know he was freaking out underneath that, knew he was worried (hah) sick about him, and he blinked open his eyes, squinting against the harsh lights of the bathroom, Armie’s face wavering into focus above him. “There you are, okay, you’re okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to leave, the office called, and you were sleeping, I didn’t mean to be gone so long.” Timmy struggled to swallow against the dryness of his mouth and throat, wincing a little in the process, and Armie cupped his jaw gently. “Do you need water?” Timmy just nodded, closing his eyes, the tile suddenly feeling wonderfully cool underneath him as he got hot again, shivering a little when Armie got up to move away, and he flailed out with one arm, fingers loosely grabbing at Armie’s ankle, wanting water but not wanting Armie to _go away._

“No,” he croaked out, voice hoarse, and he tried to clear his throat but that just made him cough _more_ , curling his arms over his head as he shivered through it, and by the time he was done Armie was back on the floor, shushing him gently, petting his hair back out of his face and tugging him up gently, gathering Timmy in his arms and settling him in his lap, holding up a cup of water for him.

“Slowly now, come on, baby,” he urged, and Timmy leaned forwards, taking tiny sips of water and pausing after each one, his throat protesting even as it was soothed. He managed to get down about half the glass before pulling back, shaking his head and tucking it under Armie’s chin.

“No,” he said again, well aware he sounded miserable and childish and was _pouting_ but he hadn’t been this sick in _years_ and he felt _wretched_ and useless and horrible, and Armie set the water down, rubbing his back gently, chin resting on Timmy’s head.

“Okay, we can be done with the water for now. If I get you a bath, can you sit in it for me?” he asked, resting his hand on the back of Timmy’s neck and rocking him slightly, Timmy clinging to his shirt weakly. “Just for a few minutes, it might help you feel better. And I can change the sheets, get you new blankets. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” He wasn’t telling, Timmy noted through the haze of fog occupying his brain, he was asking, and he took a moment, trying to concentrate on whether or not he actually _could_ do that, and he finally nodded against Armie’s chest, felt Armie’s lips press against his temple. “Good. That’s my good boy,” Armie said, and Timmy hummed a little, pressing closer as Armie shifted, standing and lifting him in one smooth movement, and had he been feeling better Timmy would have been able to find the words to tell him how amazing it was that he could do that, how safe he felt when Armie’s arms were around him, holding him up, keeping him close, but since his brain was stuck in a loop of _sicksicksicksicksick_ he just sniffed again and pressed teeny kisses against Armie’s collarbone.

He swayed a little when Armie set him on the wide edge of the bathtub, blinking at him a little dazed as Armie kept one hand on his hip, steadying him, as he turned on the taps and adjusted the temperature, talking quietly the whole time about nothing, really, but Timmy knew he was doing it so he had something to focus on, something to ground him. He knew sometimes subs went into something akin to subspace if they were ill enough, but he hadn’t ever experienced it until this particular illness hit, and it was because of that that Armie was home, was with him, wasn’t off at work just a phone call away, but here, keeping him grounded, keeping him safe.

When Armie was satisfied with the water, he tugged at Timmy’s shirt, pulling it over his head gently, soothing him when he shivered and whined at the chill of the air, kissing his cheeks, his jaw, pulling him up to stand on wobbly legs so he could finish undressing him before helping Timmy into the water, easing him down gently and supporting most of his weight so he didn’t slip, settling him against the curve of porcelain and kissing his forehead again, waiting until Timmy turned to focus on him before speaking.

“I’m just going into the bedroom, baby,” he said, rubbing his hand gently over Timmy’s shoulder. “You’ll be able to see me through the door, and if you need me you just say so, okay? I won’t be gone very long, I promise.” Timmy nodded, the water just warm enough to keep him comfortable but cool enough that he didn’t feel _hot_ anymore, and Armie squeezed his shoulder and pushed off the floor, moving back into the bedroom. Timmy just let his head rest to one side, blinking sleepily out the door, watching Armie move between the closet and the bed, stripping off the sweat-soaked sheets and blankets and dropping them in the hamper before putting new sheets on, and he couldn’t help the tiny smile that formed as he watched, the small spread of warmth through him that had nothing to do with sickness and everything to do with the knowledge that this was his _dom_ and he was being taken _care_ of and Armie wanted to make sure he was _safe_. 

When the bed was finished, Armie came back into the bathroom, stripping down out of his own clothes before shifting Timmy slightly in the tub, climbing in behind him and settling him back against his chest, laughing at the pleased little hums escaping Timmy without him really realizing it, wiggling to wrap his arms around Armie the best he could and sighing, eyes closing and finally feeling like maybe he could relax. Armie let them sit like that for a few long minutes, rubbing Timmy’s back and holding him close, Timmy drifting in and out of something close to sleep, a state of relaxation so deep he wasn’t really aware of if he was present or not, before Armie finally shifted, pulling the plug on the drain and making Timmy whine. He laughed a little, waiting for the water to mostly drain out before tugging Timmy gently to his feet, guiding him out of the tub and into the open shower next to it, getting the water on and turning Timmy so his back was to the spray, Armie tipping his head back gently to wet his hair down, and Timmy let his eyes close, let himself be maneuvered as Armie worked shampoo into his hair with gentle fingers, rinsed it out carefully, ran a loofah with the tangy scent of citrus over his arms and stomach, his back, shifting to crouch and get his legs before turning Timmy carefully under the spray, rinsing him off and kissing his collarbone, his jaw, murmuring quietly that he was doing so well and Armie was so proud of him, and “just a little while longer, baby, then you can get back in bed.”

When Armie finished rinsing him off, he reached around Timmy to turn off the water, grabbing one of the towels from the rack and wrapping it around his shoulders, laughing a little as Timmy leaned into him, resting his forehead on Armie’s shoulder, his arms looped loosely around his waist under the towel. He let himself be moved again, Armie gently drying him off, rubbing the towel over his hair last, before quickly drying himself off, always keeping one hand on Timmy, making sure he knew Armie was close by, was looking out for him. When he was finished, he carefully led Timmy out of the bathroom and to the bedroom, standing him in front of the bed and grabbing the pajamas laying out on top of the blankets. Timmy blinked at them, a little confused, because they were Armie’s, but he obediently lifted his arms when told, sighing as the fabric enveloped him, sleeves too long for his arms and shirt draping off his torso, lifting his legs when Armie guided him to, curling his toes underneath too-long pants legs, and he swayed a little when Armie moved to dress himself, reaching out for him and pouting again, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, tugging him closer.

“I know, baby,” Armie laughed, pulling his pants up and stepping close, wrapping his arms around Timmy. “I’m right here. I didn’t go anywhere. What do you say we lay you back down, huh? See if you can sleep for a while more?” Timmy nodded up at him, not really able to make himself speak, floating somewhere comfortable because Armie was taking care of him, and even though he still hurt and felt miserable and awful all over, Armie was so careful with him, made him feel so safe, that it hardly seemed to matter anymore. He twisted his mouth, though, when Armie moved to pull the blankets down, tugging at his hand. Armie turned back, one eyebrow raised. “What do you need, sweetheart?” Timmy chewed his lower lip, then hesitantly lifted one hand to his throat, rubbing against the bare skin, rocking a little back and forth on his feet.

Wearing the collar at home was optional, unless there were guests who weren’t immediate family over, but Timmy usually ended up wearing one of the more casual ones around the house anyways, because he liked how it felt, liked being reminded that he belonged to someone, that someone belonged to him, that he was taken care of and loved and kept safe. But Armie had taken it off the first night he was sick because he was worried it might affect his breathing, but TImmy needed it now, needed something to keep him more grounded, more present. He felt _awful_ and the collar made him feel _safe_ but he couldn’t make words work so he just kept touching his throat and looking at Armie intently. Armie smiled a little, brushing his fingers over Timmy’s jaw. “Alright,” he said, dropping his hand to squeeze Timmy’s wrist. “Will you please get in bed first, though? And then I’ll go get one, I promise.”

Timmy nodded, wincing when the movement hurt his head, and Armie helped him clamber under the blankets, fussing with them and pulling them up around him, arranging pillows under his head until he was satisfied, before going to the dresser and pulling open the top drawer. Timmy watched through half-closed eyes until Armie came back, holding one of the more simple collars, corded and lightweight, meant for working out or swimming, and he settled on the bed next to Timmy, reaching for him, and Timmy leaned in a little, lifting his head so Armie could slide the collar around his neck, fastening it with a satisfying _click_ in the back, and Timmy sighed immediately, falling back against the pillows, eyes closing as he reached up with one hand to brush his fingers over it, the reminder that he was safe no matter what, feeling the soft press of it when he swallowed, and he hummed, wiggling a little in a happy little dance as Armie slid into the bed next to him, laughing at him.

“That better, baby?” he asked, and Timmy just hummed again, keeping his eyes closed as he turned into Armie, sighing when his arms wrapped around his waist, resting his head on Armie’s shoulder, one leg slung over his hips, an arm draped up over his shoulders. He would be too hot in less than five minutes, he knew, and he knew that where his hair was still damp was getting Armie’s shirt wet, soaking through to the skin, but Armie’s fingers were gently dragging through his hair and his other hand was heavy over Timmy’s hips and he hurt just a little less and could breathe just a little easier, and he fell asleep with the sound of Armie’s heart thrumming steadily in his ear.


	6. Twice Bitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie thinks Timmy looks beautiful, tied up and covered in marks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this in like ten minutes at THREE AM for the CMBYN heart eyes challenge <3

_Armie_

Timmy shivered beneath him, chest heaving as he gasped for breath, fingers grasping at the air above his head, slender wrists encircled by deep navy cuffs, the color stark against his skin, and he whimpered a little when Armie pulled back, taking his weight off of him, eyes opening and latching onto his, blurred and unfocused and so full of _want_ it took Armie’s breath away.

He dropped his head, nuzzling at Timmy’s throat, right above the collar that matched the cuffs, just to feel him sigh, tip his head back, strain to reach him somehow even though his hands were tied down, and Armie scraped his teeth gently over the patch of exposed skin above the collar, feeling Timmy’s moan vibrate through his lips. He smiled at that, shifting lower, attaching teeth to Timmy’s collarbone and biting softly, Timmy’s hips jerking up against Armie’s stomach, smearing precome over his skin, and when Armie applied more pressure, teeth firm over the bone, tongue licking the skin caught between his teeth, Timmy went limp, whimpering gasps the only noise in the otherwise silent room.

He was beautiful like this, Armie thought, pulling back to admire the mark forming, closing his mouth around it and sucking the abused flesh into his mouth, worrying it with teeth and tongue until Timmy was squirming again, almost sobbing, hips twisting under Armie’s and eyelashes fluttering over those dazed, gorgeous eyes as he floated in subspace, completely open and vulnerable and willing to take whatever Armie would give him.

Armie finally released Timmy’s skin, licking one last time over the mark now blooming on his chest, smug at the strangled groan that escaped his sub when he did so, shifting lower on Timmy’s torso and repeating the process, delicately biting the flesh around one nipple, making his boy cry out and arch off the bed and Armie _bit_ the pert, pink nub and didn’t let up, keeping his eyes on Timmy’s face for any sign of distress, pleased when his mouth fell open, slack with pleasure, hands clenching and unclenching in fists above his head. He licked over that mark, moved on.

Made his way down Timmy’s torso, crescent-moon bites in his wake, licking and sucking over bruised, abused skin, dragging his nails up and down Timmy’s thighs lightly as he finally nuzzled between his thighs, dragging his lower lip over the crease of groin and hip before sinking his teeth, hard, into the soft flesh of Timmy’s inner thigh and pressing his hips back down on the bed when he hitched them up, seeking friction, and he rolled the skin between his teeth and tongue until Timmy was crying out, practically _sobbing_ , tiny incoherent pleas escaping in broken gasps, and he finally let go of the skin, admiring the bruise already forming, pressing his fingers into it and making Timmy moan brokenly.

He kept his fingers there for a moment, watching Timmy’s head loll to one side, tears trailing down his face, mouth open and soft, inviting, entire body flushed and covered in his teeth, his marks, and he stroked his fingers gently over Timmy’s thigh, nails scratching. “Color, baby?” he asked, keeping his touches soothing, gentle.

It took Timmy a moment to answer, licking his lips and opening his mouth several times before finally sighing out “green”, his eyes opening, hooded and blurred and checked out, focusing only when he looked at Armie, and Armie smiled at him, rubbed his fingers over the head of Timmy’s dick and delighted in the jerk of his hips, the sobbing breath that escaped him,

“That’s my good boy,” he crooned, taking his fingers, smeared with precome, and pressing them against Timmy’s mouth, feeling himself get even harder as Timmy just opened his mouth and let Armie rub his fingers over his tongue, his lips, pushing the taste of himself into Timmy’s mouth, and when he withdrew his fingers Timmy licked his lips and hummed a little, and Armie kissed that soft, reddened mouth, keeping it sweet, mostly innocent, until Timmy was straining up against him, and then he smiled and pulled back, hands on Timmy’s hips.

“I’m going to flip you over now, baby,” he said, petting over Timmy’s skin and nuzzling above his collar again, and Timmy just nodded, curls stuck to his forehead and spread out on the pillow, and Armie carefully flipped him, Timmy’s wrists crossing over his head as he did so, and Armie smiled and ran one hand down his back, scraping his nails over his ass.

He couldn’t mark up one side of his boy and not the other, now, could he?


	7. Just For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie, Timmy, Pride month. 
> 
> That's it, that's the thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's pride month, and I could not let this go by without marking it with these two. I'm working on the first chapter of the next part, but I wanted to give y'all something in the meantime.
> 
> ALSO, thank you all for your kind words of support while I'm dealing with family stuff. I love you guys.

_Armie_

Armie stepped into the crowded bar with Greta, scanning the room for any sight of Timmy--he knew he was here, he’d texted him only a short while ago, told him he and Saoirse had found a table with some friends, would wait for the two of them to get out of their _boring adult meetings_ and get their asses over to the bar, making Armie chuckle. But the bar was a thriving, moving mass of bodies, people crowded onto the dance floor, squished into spaces near the bar, piled in booths. The lights were a dizzying array of ever-changing rainbow colors, and almost everyone was adorned with beaded necklaces, glittery rainbows painted on cheeks or over foreheads, various stages of dress and undress celebrating what they were, what this meant, the atmosphere heavy with the blush of _pride_ in themselves, in the moment.

Greta tugged his arm and pointed, and Armie followed her finger, saw Timmy and Saoirse on the dance floor, his curls stuck to his forehead as he danced with the blonde, her hair streaked with colors to imitate a rainbow, and he felt the familiar tug of lust and affection when he saw Timmy’s face (one that hadn’t faded, he hoped would never fucking fade), his boy’s eyes glittering with excitement, a streak of rainbow colors smeared across one high cheekbone, watched him laugh as he and Saoirse executed some tricky dance move, arms linking and unwinding in a smooth motion that had them switching places before linking them back together. He was fucking gorgeous, all the time, but here, finally in a space where he could be completely himself, he was even more so. 

Armie hadn’t ever really participated in pride events--sure, he’d sponsored floats every year since taking over the New York office, he donated plenty to the causes he supported, was vocal about moving forwards not just submissive’s rights but also LGBT rights, but he’d never really felt like he was _part_ of the community. Maybe it had something to do with his upbringing, where he was expected to marry a nice, female submissive and make babies, something about that that still niggled the back of his brain even years after leaving, told him maybe he was making the wrong decision, maybe he was just playing at liking men. He’d had short-term contracts with men before Timmy, but never anything serious--not that he’d ever had anything serious before Timmy, he thought, watching him twine his arms above his head, swaying his hips in time with the music, feeling that affection bloom in his chest, tug at him in a way that still surprised him. They hadn’t said it yet, not outright, but he was getting close--they’d been bonded for almost six months, he saw it in Timmy’s eyes, knew it was mirrored in his own, but neither of them had actually _said_ the words yet. And watching Timmy lose himself in music, the glint of the iridescent, rainbow collar shining in the hollow of his throat, he knew he was closer to saying it than ever before.

He was just about to lean down, suggest to Greta they move in, when Saoirse turned towards the door in her dance, and he saw the moment she spotted them, saw the squeal even though he couldn’t hear it, felt himself grin as she tugged at Timmy’s shirt and pointed, and when Timmy’s eyes latched onto his and he watched love bloom there, he knew it was almost time to finally do it. He watched, amused, as Saoirse shoved them through the crowd, tugging the much taller Timmy after her, a tiny tornado moving anyone and anything out of their paths, and she let go of Timmy when she reached Greta, bounding into her arms and hugging her tightly, Greta laughing and catching her, and as Armie reached for Timmy, drew him in, he saw that Saoirse’s collar matched Timmy’s. He raised one eyebrow.

“Did you convince Greta to get her one, or did she get you to convince me to get you one?” he asked, tipping down slightly so Timmy could hear him over the noise. Timmy grinned, flushed and beautiful, skin covered in a light sheen of sweat, and he shrugged, the innocent gesture betrayed by the glint of humor in his eyes, the wideness of his grin. 

“Maybe half and half,” he said back, turning so his mouth brushed Armie’s ear, and Armie gave in, pulling him close and kissing him, tipping his head up so their mouths met, one hand going to squeeze the back of Timmy’s neck, the collar pressing against his hand, and Timmy sighed against him, leaning in before finally pulling back, smiling at him bright enough to outshine the multicolored lights, the music, everything fading away except Timmy’s eyes, the heaving of his chest as he caught his breath, the smear of glitter and color on his cheekbones, and Armie cupped his face, kissed him again, before turning to Greta, who had one arm looped over Saoirse’s shoulders. They were fluttering their eyelashes at him and Timmy, and Armie rolled his eyes, tugged Timmy closer, catching the vibration of his laugh as he did so.

“Where to now?” Greta asked, the question more of a shout than anything, and Sersh pulled her down and started tossing out restaurant ideas, and Armie just held Timmy at his side, one hand resting over the beat of his heart, the other wrapped around his waist, content to go anywhere as long as Timmy would be there with him.


	8. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Timmy host a Halloween party! BECAUSE IT'S THE BEST DAY OF THE YEAR. This party takes place in the future of the current main storyline, canonically after the Pride outtake in the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL UH HELLO. IT'S BEEN.....A WHILE. I'm sorry it's been months. I've been going through a lot, personal-life wise, and I'm still working on sorting it all out, but I've begun writing again!! And that's been a huge help, because I was stuck in a rut for so long, feeling like nothing I did was good enough. It was really bad, I wrote and deleted a lot of things in that time, but I'm liking what I'm doing so far, and so. HERE IS A THING. I haven't edited this, all mistakes are my own, and I hope you guys enjoy it. Thanks for all your patience with me as I get my shit together, or attempt to. 
> 
> This one is for the chalet-mets. Y'all are my rocks and I love you.
> 
> ALSO I HAVE OVER 150 THINGS TO REPLY TO IN MY INBOX, I'M GETTING TO THEM, I PROMISE. I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH <333333

Armie should have expected that Timmy's costume would be exceptional, should have expected that, with his contacts and his own talents, anything he did would be above and beyond. He wasn't expecting, however, for the sight of Timmy settled shirtless and cross-legged facing the mirror on the bathroom counter, collar stark against his bare skin as he carefully brushed white base paint across his cheeks, to be quite as....enticing as it was. He was concentrating, tongue peeking out from one corner of his mouth as he carefully brushed the sponge in his hand over his cheekbones, the curve of his eyebrows, the sharp angle of his jaw. His fingers were steady, occasionally one of them shifting off the sponge to blend in some smudge or blemish, Armie imagined, and he leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching as Timmy swept the color below his jaw, blending a few inches down on his neck. He’d cut his hair recently, the nape of his neck more exposed than it had ever been, and Armie watched as he carefully blended in white paint around the edges of his hairline.

Timmy set down the sponge when he was finished, turning his head in the mirror to check his work, and his eyes finally lit on Armie’s in the mirror. He smiled, reaching for one of the brushes spread out next to him. “Don’t you dare come in here,” he said, tone teasing, grabbing another pot of color as he spoke, and Armie grinned at him. 

“Afraid you’ll get too distracted?” 

Timmy narrowed his eyes, twisting to face Armie, ribs stark against his skin as it pulled taut, and Armie had to consciously focus on keeping his eyes on Timmy’s. “We’re hosting a party in an hour and a half. As in, people are coming _here_ , and I’m not having you mess all this up before then. I don’t want to scandalize our guests.” Armie snorted, and Timmy rolled his eyes. “You and I both know that if we start something, neither of us will be presentable when people begin to arrive. _And_ ,” he continued when Armie opened his mouth to speak, “Saoirse will be here in forty-five minutes to help me with the rest of this. So. Hands off.”

Armie smiled at him, slow and predatory, watching Timmy swallow hard, his fingers tightening on the makeup brush. “Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, “there’s all sorts of things I could do to you and still have you presentable.” He watched Timmy shiver, his eyes fluttering closed, and then Timmy stabbed out at him with the brush.

“Get away. Go. Somewhere else. Anywhere else,” he said, eyes opening, that forest green stark against the white paint covering his face, his voice hoarse, and Armie just smiled again, winked at him, and turned to leave. “You’re a _jerk_ ,” he heard echo after him, and he laughed. 

\------------

He couldn’t get the image out of his head, though, and had to retreat to the kitchen, putter around watching the caterers and decorators putting last-minute touches on things to try to take his mind off of it. When the bell chimed, he strode into the entryway to answer, nodding approvingly at the swathes of fabric and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, draping the walls. He pulled the door open, smiling at Greta and Saoirse. “Ladies,” he greeted them, and Greta laughed, stepping in and kissing his cheek, Saoirse standing on tiptoe to do the same, and he returned the easy, affectionate gesture with them both. Saoirse bounced on her toes, shedding her coat and revealing the glamorous, fringed dress underneath, collar sparkling in multi-lengthed cords around her neck. “Where’s my best boy, then?” she asked, passing the coat to Greta, and Armie gestured.

“Master bathroom. At least, that’s where he was before I was kicked out,” he answered, and she shimmied her shoulders, winking at him. 

“He’s going to look _amazing_ ,” she informed him before scurrying off, heels tapping on the floor in her wake. Greta huffed out a laugh, hanging Saoirse’s coat in the closet before shrugging out of her own, at ease in the house.

“I believe her, even though I have no idea what the two of them are planning,” Armie said, eyeing his friend. “Are the two of you seriously dressed as Gatsby and Daisy?” Comfortable in the tailored suit (period-appropriate, he noted), Greta turned and winked at him.

“We are, yes. You know I rock this suit, Hammer, don’t lie.” He laughed and slung one arm over her shoulders, leading her into the main part of the house. 

“Well, then let’s get you a martini to complete the look, shall we?”

\------------

He got Greta her martini, and when she shooed him away to go get dressed, he headed upstairs, looking at the closed master bedroom curiously. He knew the wait would be worth it, but he honestly had no idea what Timmy was going to show up as. He didn’t even know what he was supposed to be wearing, since he’d agreed to let Timmy choose their costumes. As he turned into the guest room, he snorted out a laugh at the garment bag laid out on the bed, the note attached informing him his accessories were on the dresser. 

He undressed and folded his clothes on top of the dresser, then unzipped the bag, pulling out black trousers and a white shirt, and he tugged them on, almost positive they’d just been nicked from his closet. A black vest was next, and as he did up the gold buttons on the front he noticed the fabric glimmering softly when he moved, and he brushed his fingers over it, feeling the rough bristle of thread against them. A red blazer was next, and now he was getting the idea--red blazer with gold accents, and when he looked for the accessories on the dresser he found a top hat and bow tie with that same glimmering finish, black dress shoes polished to a mirror shine, and black gloves that ended just at his wrists. He studied them, then tucked them into the front pocket of the jacket, letting them hang out a little. Studying himself in the mirror as he adjusted the top hat, he laughed. A ringleader, then. He could work with this.

As he stepped out of the room, he noticed the master bedroom door was open, and he felt his pulse quicken as he headed towards the stairs, hearing Saoirse’s excited lilt, the deeper, soothing timbre of Timmy’s in response, and he took the steps quickly, hearing Saoirse squeal a little as his footsteps became heard. When he rounded the corner into the main living room, Greta was smirking into her martini and Saoirse, now with her hair fashioned into a bob and her headpiece in place, bounced again. “He’s in the kitchen,” she informed Armie, and Greta grabbed one of her hands and squeezed as Armie turned towards the kitchen, swallowing hard.

“Please just tell me you’re not some sort of sexy lion--” he started as he rounded the corner, but then he stopped, speechless, breath catching somewhere in his throat. 

Timmy was….resplendent, he thought, lithe frame on display in a bodysuit of swirling greens and blues, gold accents appearing here and there, the colors all seeming to shimmer together when he moved, and as Armie’s eyes dragged up his form he noticed the gloves covering Timmy’s hands in the same pattern, the wide collar of colorful feathers fanning out behind his head, connected at each shoulder, the shine of blue and green in his hair. His neck had been painted that same mix of blue and gold, and his eyes were rimmed in kohl, feathers attached to his eyelashes, gold ones this time, deepening the green of his eyes, his lips tinted the same gold hue, the rest of his face colored to match, blue swirling into his temples, green curling under his collar, and Armie felt his mouth go dry as he moved forwards, fingers reaching out to hesitantly brush over the feathers.

He could feel Timmy trembling, the nerves radiating off him, and he slid their fingers together, Timmy’s gloved ones smooth against his own. “A peacock, huh?” he asked, trying to sound amused, but he heard the gravel in his voice, knew it was betraying just how fucking _sexy_ he found this, and Timmy’s gold lips curved up. 

“I wanted to be something flashy,” he said, and Armie delicately touched the tip of one finger to the small jewels he noticed winking against the inner corners of Timmy’s eyes. “Something….artistic. Something beautiful.”

“You’re always beautiful,” Armie said, leaning down to gently, gently press his mouth against Timmy’s, careful not to smudge his makeup, and he felt Timmy’s mouth curve up against his own. “But this is….something else, Tim, _jesus_.” Timmy grinned, teeth flashing against the color of his face. 

“So you like it, then?” Armie lifted one multi-colored, gloved hand and kissed Timmy’s fingers through the fabric.

“If there weren’t people in the other room, I’d show you exactly how much I like it right now,” he said, and Timmy sighed, tipped his head up for another kiss, and as Armie leaned down to indulge him, the door chimed. Armie groaned, and Timmy laughed, pecking a quick kiss against Armie’s mouth.

“It’ll have to be later, then,” he said, smiling, and Armie linked their fingers again. 

“It _will_ be later,” he said, and Timmy smiled, soft and affectionate, reaching up to adjust Armie’s top hat.

“Come on, lovebirds, guests are here!” Greta called from the other room, and Timmy laughed and tugged Armie out of the room. “You can make out later!”

Timmy flashed a look at Armie, eyes burning green against his makeup. “I’m counting on it.”


End file.
